


Pretty Faced Fighter With Fire In His Eyes

by a_daydream_believer



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Dick Grayson-centric, Hurt Dick Grayson, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Not Canon Compliant, Ric Grayson sucks but hurt Dick Grayson does not, Tags May Change, Timeline What Timeline, another late night/early morning idea, cause canon sucks, if dc can be inconsistent so can i, unbeta'd we die illiterate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24697534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_daydream_believer/pseuds/a_daydream_believer
Summary: Dick Grayson, a.k.a. Nightwing, has been killed, brought back to life just to be forced undercover and pretend like he'd stayed dead, then finally comes home just to be shot and benched. He's (forcibly) moved back into Wayne Manor, and now he has to figure out just who Dick Grayson is without Nightwing - and how he fits in his family without a mask.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 3
Kudos: 172





	Pretty Faced Fighter With Fire In His Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> im screaming, why i decided to write this? no idea. i was reading fluffy, cuddly batfam fics and then i wrote this. and there's really vaguely implied romantic relationships, like super vague, that i didn't bother to tag because it's really just that vague. uh, enjoy?

_Dick sits on Joker’s chest; one hand wrapped around Joker’s throat so tight, even the slightest bit of pressure would break it, and another curled into a fist that comes down and down again. He feels skin and muscle and bone fold under his blows - it’s like punching any other non-powered human, and yet he’d lost two brothers to this thing, more monstrous than any man he’d encountered._

_The only way to be rid of it was through death, but even when he feels a pulse falter, he doesn’t stop. He just keeps looking at that horrible smile - stretched too wide and with too many teeth - and those beady eyes that speak of nothing but insanity. The same eyes that didn’t even bother to watch as Jason died, instead carelessly leaving him to play with Bruce’s mind, and then gleefully claimed to have killed Tim too as another game._

_And at the sight, his anger spikes, renewed. He keeps punching. With each punch, he wants to see the vile face become unrecognizable; wants the teeth to shatter and the smile to fall, wants the bone to break and the eyes to close; wants all his anguish to be gone as he gives all his anger and pain to the bloodied pulp of a monster. As he wants, he still knows - even in this twisted, nightmarish memory - there is no joy to be found in this death, only more guilt and grief. But there is no Tim to remind him of that; to assure him that he hadn’t lost another brother and put a gentle stop to his fists with a touch. There’s no Bruce to hit the reset button on actions that would surely eat him up by bringing Joker back to life._

_Then it gets worse. Joker’s body dissolves, slowing fading into dust. The last thing left is that empty, mocking smile before a wind from nowhere takes it away. Then, he’s surrounded by nothingness. Left all alone in the dark._

_Somehow the dream tilts - he’s falling...falling...his mask is gone, so is his suit, and he’s in that_ thing _again. The metal is as cold as Luthor’s eyes. He looks up, and Luthor seems to grow taller and taller; a giant looming over him. Thin lips mouth an apology that he doesn’t believe. His pulse jumps, and peeks over Luthor’s shoulder to see Selina or Bruce or anyone. But there’s only Luthor and the horrible countdown and the metal trapping him._

_Luthor looks calm and collected as he reaches out, but Dick can see the smirk in his eyes. His hand gets closer and closer; skin becoming a bleached white, lips stretching up into an insincere grin lined with red. Sick joy at being able to hurt Batman and Superman and everyone Dick is close to that Luthor hates, and saving himself in the process. Still, Dick doesn’t thrash or scream or struggle for breath._

This is for the best. _He chants the words in his head as his lungs start to burn._ This is for the best. _He repeats as his vision starts to fade._ This is for the best. _He tells himself again and again until there’s not enough air to think._

Bang.

_No, no, no. This isn’t how these memories go._

_Rain, a bang, pain, concrete. He’s gone before he falls. But he’s still awake; still alive enough to know he’s dying. The man with Joker's features and Luthor's eyes still has a hand over his mouth and nose. Still blocking his airways. Still_ killing _him._

_Dick’s heart stutters...slowing...slowing...slowing to a stop. Lost and trapped, no way home. No one to save him. No coming back._

_The last thing he sees in the Joker’s smile matched with Luthor’s cold eyes and the glint of an unforgiving gun._

. . . 

Panicked blue eyes snap open. 

He’s got too much practice for any tears or screams to escape as he shoots up. He closes his eyes and the image pops up again - a cheshire cat grin and apathetic eyes. His breath lodges in his throat and he forces his them to open. 

The image isn’t anything new, but it’s too fresh in his mind to close his eyes for more than a second. 

His lungs start to sting, just like in his memory; but this time there’s no hand, no pressure, nothing stopping his breath except his memories. He blinks away the image lingering in his mind and bites his lip hard enough to draw blood - the dead don’t bleed. And he reminds himself: _inhale, exhale, repeat_ \- because he’s not dead, the dead don’t breath. The dead don’t feel and the dead don’t have needs. And that’s all well and fine, cause _he’s not dead_. 

Relaxing, he knows he’s probably not going to get back to bed - at least not immediately. He won’t be surprised if he doesn’t get any more sleep though. Hasn’t been getting much since he’s moved back into the manor. Since he was- His eyes wander to his digital clock, on the screen the garish red light mocks _3:50 A.M_. 

Out of bed, out onto the balcony. Another night, another nightmare. 

The air is chilled, winter approaching, but it grants him clarity as it brushes through his hair. It’s quickly growing, starting to hide his scar - all he can think about that is _good_. The scar is an ugly thing, though that could be said about all his scars. 

Kori had once told him they enhanced his beauty because it meant he was strong enough to survive, and kissed each one; Wally said they made him look badass and held him; Roy looked at him with understanding before taking his mind off them; Babs listened to the story of each one and shared her's. Others have thought they were mysterious or sexy.

He just sees failures etched into his skin, an ugly patchwork of not being good enough. But as much as he hates his own scars, he hates even more to think of the ones decorating his family and friends’ bodies. To think about how he wasn’t there to take that hit for them, or that he was to slow to shield them; to think about people hurting the ones he cares about; to think about the _what if_ s. 

Like what if next time they don’t escape with just a scar. ~~What if next time they don’t escape at all.~~

There’s a light scritch-scratch of claws on his door that breaks through his thoughts. Breathing deeply, he releases the balcony railing and feels blood rush back to his knuckles - he hadn’t even noticed how hard he was gripping it. 

The scratching gets louder and quicker. He crosses the room slowly, walking, and opens the door and looks down. 

“Mm-ow,” Alfred the cat greets, as if he hadn’t just been tearing up Dick’s door impatiently, yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. Dick turns away to squint at the clock - _4:00 A.M._ Only ten minutes brooding staring at the horizon, and he’s already got someone telling him to go back to sleep. Not exactly one of the ones he expects, but still. Alfred the cat is probably as smart as Alfred the human, and the no-nonsense presence is just as welcome too. 

“Come on in,” he murmurs, stepping out of the way. Alfred rubs against the door and then his leg, trotting over to the bed before looking over at Dick. Sighing, he closes the door; Alfred takes it as a sign to leap onto the bed and yell at him to do the same. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” 

As soon as he’s under the covers, Alfred sniffs around Dick’s head. Wrinkling his nose at the cat’s cold one brushing his skin, he leans back. Alfred gives an unhappy, “Meow!” 

“Yes I’m up,” another meow, “ _Why_ am I up? How do you know I wasn’t asleep when you came yelling and banging on my door,” He scoffs, “I think the question here should be why are _you_ up?” 

Alfred stares back, an unimpressed, “Meow,” in response. Dick’s lips twitch up and he puffs out an amused breath, “Yeah, I’ll give you that. Everyone in this family isn’t the best at getting enough sleep, or at least sleeping at the appropriate times. I guess that includes pets too.” 

Alfred’s yellow-gold eyes glow as they stare at him, and Dick bites the inside of his cheek, “Alright, fine. I dreamt- uh, I dreamt of dying...again. Even though I was only dead for, what, five minutes? Y'know, if everyone in the family had a dollar each time they died, Jason and Damian would have one. I’d have, like...a Monopoly dollar.

"Bruce would probably have a Chuck E. Cheese coin though, so would Tim and Steph, or maybe Steph would have Monopoly dollar too ‘cause she got pretty close. I don’t know if Cass ever...y’know, with her training, and I don’t think Duke has. Yet. Which just reminds me how close so many of us have gotten - how close I’m sure we’ll keep getting - instead of making me feel any better, but still, I still get nightmares. I just...I was scared. Staring into Luthor’s eyes while I died scared me. I mean, who wants the last thing they see to be him?” 

His chuckles die on his lips, “I knew that it was for the best, always thought I would die trying to help people, but it was...pretty, ah, _heart stopping_.” Alfred’s tail swishes, he sighs, “Yeah, yeah. I'll sometimes see him on the news, or at a gala and I just remember my lungs burning and being so tired and scared, but Luthor...he didn’t look apologetic, just unbothered - maybe a little haughty at being able to piss off B and my friends, but other than that he was cold. He just...he just stared right into my eyes and _killed me_. 

And when I wake up, I just...forget to breath. Like, my body knows I’m not supposed to be alive. Sometimes, I wonder if Jason or Damian wake up like that...I know Jason has the worst case of tinnitus out of all of us. And it's a fifty-fifty on whether he'll lash out or freeze up when he sees someone waving a crowbar around. Damian gets defensive when someone or thing touches his scar, and doesn't like not wearing a shirt - even for training or swimming.

"But it's just-...I don’t know. Of course it’d be nice to have somebody to talk to that understands, but on the other hand I kind of hope they don’t understand and I don’t want to bother them. Plus, I don’t really think they’d talk about it even if I did bring it up. Neither of them are really talkers.” 

“Meow?” 

“Well, yeah, of course I’ll talk to you. You literally _can’t_ tell anyone that I’m crazy,” Dick scoffs, then pauses. “Not that anyone else experiencing this kind of thing is crazy. Or broken. Or weak-” 

“Mrr-ow.”

“-of course I’ve got a double standard. I’m the oldest, the first. I’m _supposed_ to-” Alfred stretches out and places a paw on his cheek, he snorts, “ _Oh_ , I see how it is.”

“Meow.” 

“ _You_ go to sleep,” Dick grumbles back. He reaches out a hand, letting Alfred sniff it a bit, before scratching behind Alfred’s ears. Alfred rubs against his hand, peeking up through narrowed eyes, “Alright, fine. We’ll compromise, and both go to sleep. Better?” 

Alfred’s tail swishes and he creeps closer, curling up to Dick to steal his warmth; though, Dick can’t really mind as the gentle purring lulls him back to a thankfully dreamless sleep.

. . . 

Next time he wakes up it’s to Alfred the cat’s tail in his face. He grimaces and sits up, “Thanks.” 

Alfred peers back at him. The tail waves, and Alfred turns away, “Meow.” 

Smartass.

Dick glances at the clock - _12:05 P.M._ Without any nightmares, seems he’s gone back to his usual habit of sleeping in. He leaves Alfred on the bed as he gets ready for the day. Alfred doesn’t seem to mind, rolling into the warm space he’s left. 

He’s back soon enough. His teeth are brushed and his hair is combed.

Slung low on his hips are too big sweatpants that has the smell of whatever laundry detergent Alfred (the human) uses and the lingering smell of gunpowder and whiskey that he associates with the complicated feeling of weariness and something like love. And he's in his favorite Superman shirt - the image is worn and bears zero resemblance to the man it depicts; everyone else - however secretly - loves it too.

Putting his fists on his hips, he asks, “How do I look?”

Alfred meows at him. 

“Thank you,” he grins, opening to the door and standing aside - back straight and other arm behind his back and in poor imitation of Alfred the human, he asks, “Coming to lunch, Alfie?” 

“Meow,” Alfred says back, unamused, but jumps down and trots through the door. Dick follows close behind. Checking the hall as they get to the main stairs, he sits on the railing. 

“I do hope you’re not planning to _slide_ down the banister,” Alfred, the distinctly unimpressed butler, says dryly. His eyebrow raises as Dick’s feet plant back on the floor, “If you were, however, to slide down, I figure you remember the rules for when you first moved in.” 

“Aw, I won’t need to wipe it down because I’m going to come down like a totally normal person,” Dick assures; then backs up to vault over the railing and roll to his feet. 

Unfazed by his antics, Alfred claps politely before saying, “You’ve arrived in time to catch lunch in the dining room with Master Bruce, if you’d like.”

Dick brushes past with a grin, “Thanks for telling me. I think I’m going to join B for lunch.” 

“Your food is at your usual seat,” Alfred tells him without missing a beat. 

“Thanks!” He throws over his shoulder, sliding into the family dining room - smaller if only by comparison to the guest dining room - and greets, “Morning, B.” 

When he removes the cover from his bowl, he can’t help but smile back at the smiley face floating in his soup. Bruce doesn’t glance up from his phone as he asks, “Going out tonight?” 

Dick’s smile falls, swallowing carefully as he watches the spoon disrupt the picture, “I’d like to.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Bruce sighs, eyes flicking up but finding their way back to whatever is so important on his phone - whatever is more important than Dick. 

“I know,” he huffs back, frowning at now smile-less soup, “I just don’t know _why_ -”

“Yes you do.” 

“Oh, no, I really don’t. I know _your_ reasons, but I don’t know _why_ because your reasons are _bullshit_.”

Alfred clears his throat as he enters, “Language, please, Master Richard-” his gaze falls to Bruce as Dick’s grip on his spoon tightens, “-Master Bruce, Master Tim requests your presence in the cave as soon as you are available.” 

“I’m available now.” 

“I should think not.” 

Three pairs of eyes drift to Bruce’s full bowl of soup, spoon at to the side and napkin still folded. Bruce’s frown - because the mighty Batman never slouches unhappily - at not being able to go down, makes the anger in Dick’s chest fade a little. He meets Alfred’s eyes, and Alfred turns out of the room so quick he almost misses the wink. He hides his smile in another spoonful of soup.

_Alfred is the best._

. . . 

“Be safe,” he calls after Damian, trailing along to watch him go. The clock opens up and Damian disappears with tense shoulders, not looking back. Dick’s chest hurts, but then his eyes catch on something: the hand scanner is still visible. Hesitantly, he sets his hand on it - the light flashes mockingly. _Access Denied._ Just like last week.

“It’s only been two weeks, Master Richard,” Alfred puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, “Give it time. Master Bruce is-”

“A control freak?” Dick supplies bitterly, glancing up at Alfred’s disapproving stare. 

“Worried.” 

His eyes drop to the floor, “I should be out there...just because I’m apparently illiterate and can’t remember the _name_ of things doesn’t affect my fighting.” 

“Your temper, however, does. As does the ability to pick things up without looking at them,” Alfred chides gently, “At dinner you had to look down at your plate for each bite. You threw a fork at Master Bruce’s head because you couldn’t remember what a salt shaker was called, and he couldn’t tell what you were asking for. You’re getting angry right now. And-” 

“I’ve always had a temper,” Dick snaps, waving his hands so Alfred has to back up. He swears lowly, frowning at his fists lying uselessly at his side. No wonder Bruce won’t let him out anymore; no wonder Damian is avoiding him; no wonder no one wants to visit the manor. Because he’s there. 

The hand on his shoulder returns to warm him and draw him from his thoughts, “ _And_ he is having trouble seeing you as you currently are. So is everyone else. So are you.” 

He bites the inside of his cheek, “Do you think I’ll ever get better?” 

“You _are_ going to get better, but-” Alfred taps his chin up, features softening, “-better does not mean you will be who you were.”

A moment goes by and Dick blinks back tears threatening to fall. Alfred steps back, his hand falling from Dick's shoulder, "Just remember: your family is here for you, even if it might not feel like it. Alright?" 

The "Alright" he gives back feels heavy on his tongue. Alfred disappears - a talent every Bat and associate posses - and Dick wonders when he'll be able to believe Alfred's words, as he says to the empty hall, "Alright." 

And he hopes that it really will be a 'when', not an 'if'.

**Author's Note:**

> idk if i'm going to continue this. i've got a few scenes of a second chapter written up, but the flow bothers me and if i finish the second chapter there's no passing it off as an end point so obviously i'd have to think of a third chapter and then how many others after. 
> 
> have i thought of a loose ending (read: overall feeling, and a few scenes)? yes. do i know how to get from point a to point b? no. i'll figure it out sometime. 
> 
> anyway, hope you enjoyed. bye !


End file.
